


Graves

by StAnni



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Infidelity, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: The aftermath of his confusing turnaround had on Stiles, was exactly what Derek had wanted and the effect was brutal, long-lasting and, at that point – for a broken man, satisfying.





	Graves

Derek opens the door and Stiles is as taken aback as he is.   
They must look about the same age now.   
He knew Stiles was coming. And when Scott gave him word that Stiles had landed, he knew that at some point Stiles would make his round to Derek’s door.

And now he stands there, taller, a bit bulkier, but still slight compared to Derek. 

Once upon a time Stiles was leaning against the headboard of their bed, tracing Derek’s tattoo with a thumb. It was a hot Saturday afternoon and they had the windows wide open – there was a breeze that moved through the loft. “Don’t fall asleep yet.” He heard Stiles say and he smiled, already on the brink. “I can’t make any promises.”   
They were happy then, the happiest they would ever be – and neither of them knew it, stopped to take it in.

Now they face each other and as much as Derek knows that he could never forgive Stiles for his betrayal, he knows that Stiles could similarly never forgive Derek for his rampage that followed. So they keep their distance and Stiles nods a hello – his hands in his pockets and Derek moves back, allowing him inside.  
“I didn’t realise you were still here.” Stiles says by way of a greeting and Derek shrugs “I like it.”   
Inside Stiles takes off his jacket and the smell of his skin, soaped and tinged with sweat, raises so many sense-memories that Derek has to turn away from Stiles for a second. “Beer?” he asks and Stiles nods with a short smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

Sitting down across from Stiles in the small living room area of the apartment where they had their first time, and their last time - feels off in a way that turns Derek’s stomach acidic. 

Almost five years ago Derek had come home to find Stiles on the balcony – smoking. He could feel the agitation emanating from Stiles like a heat. He then knew that what he had suspected before was true. He wasn’t just at the mercy of a bout of irrational possessive behaviour – he wasn’t crazy. And under that agitation he could smell the crisp scent of too much soap, so much soap – soap to wash away sin and guilt and another man’s hands on his boyfriend.

The door handle had crumpled in his palm as he ripped open the closet and violently swept Stiles’ clothes in a rumpled mess on the floor. “Get the fuck out of here!” he yelled, his shove to Stiles’ shoulder harder than he intended but at the same time not as hard as he had wanted Stiles to stagger away. Stiles, only momentarily stunned, bit back in cutting lashes – grabbing clothes from the floor and yelling with hard eyes at how Derek had pushed him away, had wanted this to happen. It was an ugly, horrible parting and it left both of them utterly hollowed out.   
In the end he watched as Stiles stood desolate on the sidewalk outside the building, then left his bags right there – got in a taxi with the clothes on his back – and left Beacon Hills for good.

For their first official date, which was never actually official, but which they would both later recount as their first date to friends, Derek made Stiles a gourmet dinner from scratch and afterwards plied Stiles with red wine until Stiles, heady and impatient as only he could be, had pushed Derek back into the couch, straddled his lap, and opened his mouth on Derek’s with a satisfied groan.  
Derek, abandoning caution, had flipped them over, rolling his own hardness firmly against Stiles’ and hungrily swallowing Stiles’ gasp with a kiss. 

It wasn’t their first time, their first time had been a week earlier, after an impromptu training session, wild and rough on the kitchen floor and ended in Derek sucking Stiles off to a raspy moan as he came down Derek’s throat and Stiles then, on his knees, running his fingers down Derek’s naked ass, and sling two fingers inside, as Derek stroked himself to completion on Stiles’ open mouth. 

This time Derek could savor it – could make Stiles moan and beg for him. He first rutted against Stiles, watching his face as his breathing got shallower – making him feel the thorough pace of his thrust against Stiles’ clothed ass. “Come on, man – let me feel it.” Stiles whispered, lurid and hot – raising his ass ever so slightly against the hardness of Derek’s erection. “I want to see you cum on my cock” Derek bit back into Stiles’ mouth and Stiles nodded, eyes hooded. “So fuck me already.”

Their first time had been deliciously dirty – looking down at Stiles’ parted lips as he fingered Derek’s ass, his eyes on Derek’s leaking cock inches from his mouth.  
The second had been earth-shattering and Derek wrenched curses out of Stiles, as he fucked him into the couch, that he thought were impossible. Stiles had gripped Derek’s knees, knuckles white as he pushed back deeper against Derek and he had moaned loudly and with abandon as he came – firmly mounted on Derek’s cock as promised, spilling over (at that time) Derek’s couch.

“The place looks good.” Stiles says now, also clearly uncomfortable, and Derek nods in agreement – because it is something to do. “I took out some of the older junk.” Derek says by way of a half-hearted explanation and Stiles nods, his eyes moving to the corner where the chair was that his father had made for Derek. It was gone. Seeing that, Derek feels a nauseous pang of regret at having used the word “junk”. He had, in fact, gotten rid of the chair not long after Stiles left – simply not being able to look at a reminder of them every single day.

Derek tries to change the subject but he can see that Stiles, as shuttered as he was when he entered, is even more removed now. “I’m sorry about Lydia.” He offers. And he is – it was a devastating blow, and an absolute shock. Derek had seen the growing cracks of self-destructive behavior, slowly spidering from Lydia as if she was trying to physically break away from herself. But the car collision had been out of nowhere, sudden and a bleak silence had fallen over all of them – Lydia’s flame simply snuffed out.  
Stiles, at first, doesn’t look at Derek at the mention of Lydia’s name, but then, his face hardening slightly, does meet his eyes – and Stiles’ eyes, usually a warm brown under any circumstance – is cold and stony. “Lydia was the one person I still spoke to from here.” Stiles says, his voice even “You knew that. You knew that she was probably my best friend.” Derek blinks, because he did know that, and his heart thuds heavily because although he knows where Stiles is headed, he never thought that Stiles even cared.  
“You didn’t even call. You didn’t text.”  
He didn’t. And he has no excuse or answer for Stiles.  
“So I know you’re not. Sorry, I mean. I know you really are not.”  
Derek can detect no anger from Stiles, no vindication – his heart beat is a steady low pump. If anything, Stiles is honest, broken and sad.   
Derek takes a breath and looks away from those eyes – buckling under the moment.  
“Stiles…”  
And Stiles shake his head, quiet and almost indifferent – “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to hear anything about that. I just want you to know, that I do, finally, understand – and I don’t expect or hope for anything anymore.”

After Stiles had left that night – years ago, he started to call and text and email. He left professions of love and of regret. He begged for forgiveness. And the Derek that had survived, the beast that had crawled up to the surface and taken over, was not someone Derek would recognize now. He was grateful, to be honest, at the strength he managed to show in the wake of what was the most significant heart break of his life – but he was callous too, to the point of cruelty. He drove to Stiles, where he was staying in a rented basement a few weeks later, and entered his room – ignoring the surprise and elation on Stiles’ face. He kissed Stiles as if no time had passed between them, as if there had been no infidelity, no shattering of trust. He took Stiles, right there, on the floor of that basement, with tenderness and a hunger that had Stiles blink back tears of gratitude.  
And then he left him, without a word.  
The aftermath of his confusing turnaround had on Stiles, was exactly what Derek had wanted and the effect was brutal, long-lasting and, at that point – for a broken man, satisfying.

Now Stiles, still the same Stiles, still the Stiles that could say four words and lift Derek’s spirit to unabashed joy – or with only a glance, could sink his heart, now Stiles – sits before him again.  
And he is still the same, but the scars that Derek has inflicted, unknowingly at times and at times with self-justified intent, outnumbered and outweigh the single betrayal that Derek suffered at the hands of Stiles.

“Stiles, I should have called…” He starts, because it is the only place that he can start – the ball, firmly, where it has always been, in his hands.  
“It’s too late.” Stiles answers and there is a silent finality in his voice – a corner turned. “And it actually, it just shows that we are, finally, on the same page. That I’m finally on the same page.”

Dig two graves, isn’t that the saying.

Stiles gets up, leaves the bear to sweat on the side table and puts his hands back in his pockets. 

Derek can’t take his eyes from the condensation rolling slowly from the body of the bottle to it’s base, pooling on the table. Once upon a time Stiles bit his shoulder, his eyes warm and inviting. Dig two graves.

“I came to say, that I get it. That there is nothing.” 

And leaves.


End file.
